


A Man Alone

by asuralucier



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Character Study, Dubious Consent, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, John and Marcus Make Bad Decisions AU, Loneliness, M/M, Mentor/Protégé, Morally Complicated and Morally Compromised Assassins, Non-Linear Narrative, Pining, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, wait a minute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:56:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23445097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: “That contract is for everyone else,” Viggo says, “for you, I have another proposition.”Or: that JW1 AU where Marcus has a lot of unresolved feelings towards his former protégé, which he inevitably revisits after Helen’s death. This all is complicated by his former boss hiring him for a shocking twelve million (plus expenses) to keep his scumbag kid alive and breathing, and most importantly, out of the reach of one John Wick.Yeah, this is not going to go tits up at all. No chance.
Relationships: Marcus/John Wick
Comments: 20
Kudos: 52





	1. Take it or leave it

**Author's Note:**

> The wonderful Pistachio drew [this](https://jardanijovonovichs.tumblr.com/post/617591879790395392/do-i-wanna-know-i-had-an-idea-kicking-around) nifty gem of a comic WITH CARROTS AND BLANTON'S AND FEELINGS inspired by this fic. Do yourselves a favor and go check it out! It's seriously aces.

“How much for you to,” here, Viggo pauses. 

Marcus waits, unsure if the man is pausing for dramatic effect or if he’s still thinking about whatever he’s about to say. But it’s barely gone seven; add to that, Marcus is barely dressed, barely awake. It’s unlikely that Viggo has woken up at the ass-crack of dawn, slicked his hair, and then schlepped from Little Russia through mind-numbing traffic to Marcus’s Midtown apartment just to think about it. 

Finally, Marcus grows tired of waiting. He says, “Well? Spit it out. Or else you can get the hell out and I’m going back to bed.” 

Upon closer inspection, Marcus finds that he has to revise his initial assumption of Viggo Tarasov in his dining room. Viggo might have slicked his hair (as much as there is hair to slick) and put on a tie, but now Marcus gets the feeling that the guy did those things forty-eight hours ago and he’s not exactly paying Marcus a visit because he _wants_ to. 

It’s just a guess, of course, but Marcus has been around the block a few times, enough to trust his gut. And his gut, weighed down with whiskey from last night, ain’t telling him anything good. 

“Never mind,” Viggo says, holding up a hand. “I start over, yes?” 

“Yeah, so long as you hurry the fuck up.” 

“I’ve put a contract out on John Wick.” 

Marcus says, mostly on automatic, “Jesus. How much?” 

“Two million,” Viggo responds, his posture relaxing once he’s settled into a rhythm. It’s not exactly an unfamiliar conversation between them. Viggo hasn’t climbed to the top of the criminal world in record time by being predictable. But maybe putting a contract out on his best dog isn’t as unpredictable as it is stupid. Even if the said dog is retired. 

“Touched you thought of me,” Marcus says. There’s a weird twisting feeling in his gut that tells him that his gut is closing up shop. This is too strange, all blind territory. He’s never felt so goddamn alone. “But if it’s a contract, you could have just called.” 

“That contract is for everyone else,” Viggo says, “for you, I have another proposition. Another contract.”

“I’m freelance,” Marcus reminds him for the sake of decorum. “You can’t play favorites anymore, Viggo.” 

“I’ll make it worth your while, Marcus,” Viggo speaks quickly, obviously trying to get all the words out before Marcus runs him out the door, “Ten million. Ten million, for the best enforcer I’ve ever had in my employ. One last job.” 

At first glance, it’s hard to tell precisely what part of Iosef Tarasov, hungover and red-eyed, is worth twelve million. He doesn’t look a lick like his old man, which means he must look like his mother and while there are all kinds of rumors swirling around Viggo Tarasov, no one could ever accuse him of not loving his wife. 

So maybe that’s why. 

Marcus thanks the good Lord that he doesn’t have any kids, at least, none that he knows about. 

Marcus stares at Iosef Tarasov and the kid stares back. He says, thinking aloud, “Fucking hell.” 

“Half now,” Viggo presses. He’s already got his phone out, waiting. “Half when John Wick is dead. I imagine that it won’t take long. Perhaps a week.”

Marcus doesn’t know what Viggo has been smoking lately, but it must be some strong shit. 

“I was your enforcer for twenty years. Worked for you even longer than that.” Marcus divides his attention carefully between father and son. “Where the hell did you get the impression that babysitting is something I do?” 

“I would be willing to go up to twelve million,” Viggo says, as if Marcus hasn’t even opened his mouth to protest. “The contract is city-wide. And I’ll pay your expenses.” 

“You’d pay me twelve million plus expenses to keep your son alive and away from John Wick.” It’s crazy. Marcus says the terms of his proposed contract aloud and it’s sounding crazier by the minute. “Christ, kid, what’d you do?” 

Iosef does not reply. 

“Besides.” Viggo’s voice now takes on a simpering tone, the put-on warmth harshly at odds with his brittle English. “I have decided that you’re the best man for the job. You and he are personal friends, yes? John must still be using all your tricks to get by. From where I’m sitting, Marcus, you have all the advantage.” 

“I don’t got any friends.” Marcus shrugs. “It’s bad for business.” 

“I was hoping you say that,” Viggo sighs, relieved, but with the world still on his shoulders. “I knew I could trust you.” 

“The bratva wouldn’t be what it is without him. Without what John did for you.” It’s unlikely that Viggo has forgotten any of this. Without the boons brought by the Impossible Task, Viggo probably wouldn’t have twelve, no, _fourteen million_ to splash around like some regular high-roller. 

“He didn’t do it for me,” Viggo returns mildly. “John did it for himself. As well you know.”

::

“Tasmin Khan,” says Viggo. With that, he slides a photo across his heavy desk. “Have either of you had the pleasure? Her and her younger brother, Gohar operate out of Great Neck. I was hoping to ignore it, keep the peace. But maybe I’ve left it too long.”

Marcus steps back to let John have the first crack at the photo. He knows what Tasmin Khan looks like, after all, and no doubt this picture will be five years older than what he remembers, with her looking worse for wear, but it’s all the same. 

John bends, leaning forwards with his palms flat on the desk. “I think I met her once.” 

“Good.” Viggo nods. “Then you won’t run the risk of mistaking her for anyone else.”

“I wouldn’t have anyway. Fuck you.” John says. 

Viggo’s eyes flash bright blue, and for a moment, Marcus feels a sting of cold panic shooting everywhere up his nerves. He clamps a hand down on John’s shoulder, squeezing hard enough to get his attention. He’s lost the ability to be afraid of people a long time ago, Viggo included, but what Marcus is afraid of is more the mess that’d surely transpire right there and then, if one told the other where to shove it. Mostly, because it’d be all up in his. 

“Enough, John,” Marcus tells him. “Viggo was just asking a question.” 

He doesn’t know what it is with John. Swift to anger, quick to cool. But maybe Marcus has always had pretty decent luck with things that might kill him if not handled with proper care. Guns, grenades, live dynamite. John fucking Wick. He keeps his hold on John, aware that John could break it at any time. 

But eventually, John goes down to a simmer, and steps back. Marcus swallows an almost painful gulp of air, as does Viggo, and then Marcus steps up to the plate. 

“Why don’t you go cool it outside, John.” Marcus points his chin towards the door. “Now.” 

John does, his steps sticky with residual anger and Marcus doesn’t breathe again until the door clicks behind him. 

“Maybe lock the door,” Viggo suggests. 

Marcus does. Once the lock clicks into place, he feels better too. That being said, he’s broken down enough doors in his life to know that a lock’s really not a sure thing. 

“Does the Theatre do returns?” 

“Well.” Marcus practically gurgles the word. “It’s not an animal shelter, if you know what I mean.” Nor is John a dog, but maybe that’s a bit too on the nose. “Actually, don’t know if they do either. It’s probably irresponsible. Why? You don’t trust my judgment? You think that he hasn’t been doing good work?” 

Whatever Viggo Tarasov might think of John, Marcus is relieved and then some to have the kid’s work speak for itself. All the orphans at the Theatre are trained as attack dogs, for one thing only. John Wick is no exception, but he is _exceptional_. Marcus had made his decision within ten minutes of meeting the kid, and sometimes he’s regretted it, but then he’s always come back around. 

“...When a dog thinks too much for himself, he might think to bite the hand that feeds him.” Viggo says. “All I want to know is that you have this thing under control, Marcus. I trust your judgment. But only the right amount.” 

Viggo’s gotten comfortable lately, thanks to John. He’s a bit fatter around the middle. His wife is pregnant at home. 

Viggo would never admit to it, even if someone hung him upside down, but they both know it anyway. 

Marcus finds the holster on his left side and draws. He doesn’t point the gun anywhere of consequence, but he makes sure to cock the safety off. 

“How long since you’ve fired a gun, boss?” 

Viggo shifts in his chair, immediately uncomfortable. “I don’t see what that has to do with this conversation.” 

“It has everything to do with this goddamn conversation. Yeah, I have it under control.” Marcus pauses to let that sink in. Then he says, “You want to hit the Khans? You better be prepared to deal with the fallout. I know we had an agreement with Gaz Khan, God rest his soul.” 

“An agreement that his children have not honored,” Viggo reminds him and Marcus has to concede that he isn’t wrong. “I want you to hit Tasmin Khan at home. Make a point.” 

“Okay.” 

“Or do you have a problem with that?” 

“No problem,” Marcus says, nodding with the barest amount of expected respect before he leaves the room. 

Viggo Tarasov operates out of a restaurant in the heart of Brighton Beach. It’s a flexible venue, and is even registered with the county for weddings. Viggo is an enterprising man. For his part, Marcus doesn’t think much of nuptials, but he likes a good party. Likes a good drink, too. A wedding means both. 

He finds John tucked very small on a stool staring at a shot of something clear. Probably vodka. 

“C’mon, we’re going. Take it or leave it.” 

John knocks back the shot. “Going where?” He winces, probably at the harsh taste, and wipes his mouth resolutely with the back of his hand. After that, he stands, taking a moment to brush dark hair out of his equally soulless eyes, then straightens his jacket. 

“We’re paying Tasmin Khan a visit at home,” Marcus says. “I guess you could say we’re making a point.”

::

The moment his father leaves, Iosef Tarasov asks to use Marcus’s bathroom and for a moment, he thinks the kid might top himself to do them all a favor. It does mean that Marcus is out a pretty six million, but he isn’t exactly hurting for cash. The great thing about being freelance means that he doesn’t have to clear his jobs with the big man anymore, and he goes to the highest bidder, no questions asked.

But no, all Iosef does is curl himself around Marcus’s toilet and retches, like he’s throwing up his whole being, flesh and bone. 

“Rough night?” Marcus watches him carefully from the doorway. 

“Fuck off,” Iosef mutters, reaching to rub away crud and spit dangling from his chin. Then he thinks better of it. 

“Nobody’s stopping you from leaving,” Marcus says. “Door’s right there. I’m still thinking about going back to bed.” 

After round two with the toilet, briefer than the first, Iosef slumps onto the floor. No better than some crackhead giving up on life. His fingers are splayed out near his no good skull, and Marcus imagines breaking all of his fingers. 

“Hey, kid.” 

“Yeah.” 

“I wanna know what you did to get your old man to pay me twelve million. I’m not even sure I’m worth that much.” What Marcus does know is that John is worth more than that. Viggo knows that too, even though he might never admit it to Marcus’s face or anyone else’s, and therein lies the rub. 

Iosef says, “Do you know his dog?” 

“Nope.” A beat too late, but Iosef is hardly in any condition to pick up on this. 

“But you know his car.” 

Marcus says, “Kind of. Please tell me you just did something high school stupid, like piss in his car or something.” Do kids do that? Marcus doesn’t have a fucking clue. He tries again. “Laughed at his dog for having a funny face.” 

Iosef says nothing, but the silence grows heavier around him each passing minute. Marcus puts the two and two together and sighs, “The fuck were you thinking? Were you high?” 

“A little,” Iosef says, and then he starts shaking, a little like he’s having a stroke. “I don’t want to die. Marcus, I don’t want to d--” 

“Shut up.” Marcus is suddenly tired of hearing the kid talk. He goes to his bedroom and plucks a clean towel, a clean shirt, clean trousers and socks, the works from his closet, before making his way back to the bathroom and tossing them into a pile next to Iosef’s still unsteady form. “Listen up, princess. Whether or not you die, it’s not up to you anymore. Your old man’s probably slapped you around a little, but he hasn’t told you the truth.” 

Iosef grimaces, “He told me John Wick did a thing. A task.” 

“The thing,” Marcus says, “is an Impossible Task. It’s in the name. He wasn’t supposed to live. But he wanted to live so he lived. So if John Wick wants you dead, you’re dead. It’s only a matter of time.” 

“Dad said it’d be all right.” Iosef gulps air. “Especially if I stuck with you. Did what you said.” 

“Like I said, Viggo is a good liar,” Marcus mutters, mostly to himself. Out loud, he says, “Okay. Then do what I say. Get dressed. Brush your teeth. There’s a spare toothbrush in the cabinet above your head. I don’t want to have to check you for goddamn fleas.”

::

“What are you doing here, Marcus?”

The thing is, Marcus doesn’t really know. He hadn’t meant to drive here, and he hadn’t meant to read the funeral notice that John or someone probably hadn’t meant to stick in his letter box. He can’t really explain half of what he does when it comes to John. He hates funerals, especially wet ones. The rain, greasy and sticky, drums down the sides of both of their umbrellas. 

“Checking in on an old friend, I guess.” 

John doesn't look at him, and his mouth barely moves. He says, “Are we friends? You said you didn’t have any friends.”

Marcus tells himself it must be the grief talking. Usually, John doesn’t shoot so straight. Or maybe some of the things Marcus has been telling him since he didn’t remember how long now, have finally sunk in. 

Marcus shrugs, there isn’t much to say. When he doesn’t respond, John moves on, more or less content to let the question die a natural death. “Anyway, I keep asking myself, why her? Why now?” 

Because for people like them, it’s a good day not to catch a bullet or whatever in the gut. John has had more good days--five years’ worth--than anyone has ever expected. Least of all Marcus, he’d always figured John would grow bored of gardening, or DYI or whatever the fuck, and come seeking solace in his old life like it’s all he has left. 

It is, but John doesn’t know it yet. 

Marcus says, “It’s just a shit day that’s all. Tomorrow, tomorrow will be better.” 

“You don’t know that.” 

“Yes, I do.” Marcus slides his gaze towards the freshly-tossed dirt in the grave. “You buried her today. You have to deal with all these people _today_. You don’t have to do any of that tomorrow.” 

“I.” John shuts his eyes, as if willing the day to already be over. “There’s still the wake. Helen’s folks insisted we have it at the house. I had to hire a cleaner.” 

“Maybe Charlie and his boys offered a discount?” 

John laughs, short, stuttered. Then he seems to remember himself. 

John sticks out at his own wife’s funeral. Which means Marcus must stick out even more. There’s an older couple standing nearby, who are sharing an umbrella. Marcus doesn’t know why he knows this, but he thinks they must be Helen’s parents. Must be the stink of normal he can smell even from here. He nods towards them and John nods back, confirming his suspicions. 

“Do you want me to come to the wake?” Marcus asks, even though he doesn’t quite mean to do that either. 

“You’d hate it.” 

“Probably,” Marcus assents. “But I’m offering, all the same. Take it or leave it.” 

Finally, John nods. He even manages a smile, the tiniest traces of one that lives in between the strict corners of his mouth. Marcus only knows it’s there because he’s made a indulgent habit of looking for it. It’s an indulgence he ought to have gotten rid of years and years ago, but like any bad habit, it sticks deep into his bones, becoming a part of him. 

Marcus doesn’t want to be without it.


	2. Boiling point

They’ve caught the Khans just sitting down to dinner. Marcus has a taste of whatever was on their stove out of curiosity, and decides it needs salt. Desperately. 

Speaking of salt. 

Marcus hasn’t heard anything from the other room in quite some time, and more importantly, he hasn’t heard the approaching hum of vans, or indeed, any other humans moving about with purpose. Charlie is new, still finding his feet maybe when it comes to time management, but someone should have shown up by now, even with delays accounted for. 

“John?” 

“Here.” 

The mess is in the dining room, but as jobs go, this is neat enough. They’re here to make a point; they’re not here to be petty. John is standing right by the phone, unmoving. 

Marcus says, “Where’re the guys?” 

“I haven’t made a reservation.” John shrugs.

“Okay,” Marcus draws out. Something’s wrong. He doesn’t know why, but his gut is pretty good at thinking ahead when his head isn’t. “Why the hell not?” 

John meets his eyes full on, his gaze as steady and black as a well of bottomless sticky ink. “I thought it was a rule that we didn’t involve civilians. Or families.” 

“The Khans are not a family,” Marcus reminds him as a point of fact. “They’re a criminal enterprise. You think Grandma Khan over there doesn’t have the slightest idea what her grandkids do to keep her fat and rich?” Grandma Khan, the fattest and most dried up of them all, was slumped forward in her chair with a hole in her head. 

John doesn’t say anything. 

“Listen, I’m not saying that the Tarasovs are special or nothing.” Marcus adds, “One day, someone might want to make a point of paying Olga Tarasova a visit at home. Or that brat she has in her belly, you never know. You know he’s gonna be spoiled rotten.” God, his stomach is already twisting at the thought. “But hopefully, you and I will be there. And it’ll turn out all right.” 

Marcus crosses over to where John stands, next to the phone and picks up the receiver. After weighing it in his hands, he holds it out to John. “Come on. You do it, and I don’t tell Viggo.” 

“Tell Viggo what?” 

Marcus’s mouth suddenly goes dry. “That you’re not fit for purpose. One word from either of us, maybe the Theatre will take you back and you’ll be re--”

“Stop.” John barks out the word, and for a moment, Marcus wonders if he’s gone too far. He doesn’t exactly believe that the kid is unfit, because the Theatre has a reputation to uphold. But John, for all of his reflexes, for all of his quick-draw fire temper, has not an iota of cruelty in his body. 

It’s up to Marcus to make sure the cruelty takes. It’s the only way John’s going to make something of himself in the world. 

“Don’t do that,” John forces out. “I don’t want to.” 

“Then make the call,” Marcus says again. “Reservation for--” he pauses, looking back at the table, “--six. That should do it. Six words. Be a big boy, it’s not going to kill you.” 

John glares at him, but holds the receiver up to his ear and dials a number that every operative worth their salt commits to memory on the first day. From this angle, he almost looks like a natural. “This is John. I need a reservation for six.” His voice cracks a little, and Marcus has to look away.

::

Iosef Tarasov emerges from Marcus’s bathroom looking halfway alive and presentable. Marcus does his tie for him again, and the kid doesn’t give him any lip. Maybe he’s finally figured it out, that he’s in deep shit.

This all done, Marcus moves to shrug on his own jacket and he checks his gear. He’s loathed to hand the kid a gun, but if he can’t outdraw somebody like Iosef, then maybe Marcus doesn’t deserve to be alive. 

Marcus feels in his grip a snub-nose Barretta. Nice and neat. Giving away a gun is like giving away a kidney. He really doesn’t like it at all. 

Iosef is looking hopefully at the piece anyway. “That for me?” 

“I guess it is,” Marcus sighs. “Fat lot of good it’ll do you. But it’s something.” He hands it over, grip first.

Ioself tucks it away and of course, it’s too much to ask the kid to accidentally shoot himself in the balls. Once he adjusts himself again, Iosef asks, “Where are we going?” 

“Where we’re going is,” Marcus breaks off as he unlocks his front door and looks around. Nothing. No familiar burn of a scope digging into his spine. John doesn’t much like long distance anyway. That’s something that Marcus still knows, and can use to his advantage. He’s loathed to admit this too, but at his age, maybe he’s crying out for some advantage. 

“Keep your head down. And where we’re going, you don’t speak. You say one word, and I don’t care how much I was paid. When I say jump, you say yes, sir. How high?” 

“Yes sir,” Iosef says at once, and Marcus doesn’t feel better. He just feels old. 

He is old. 

“We’re going to the Continental.” 

“You mean where,” Iosef starts before he’s glared into silence again. Marcus herds him into the car like that, and when he puts the key into the ignition, Marcus can tell he’s shaking too. Marcus makes a fist, tries to relax. He still isn’t afraid of anyone, but he is afraid of what might happen if. 

Iosef mumbles, “Sorry.” 

“Yes, we’re going to the place where your old man would have hired nearly everyone on its grounds to kill John Wick. It’s probably the safest place you could be. But.” 

“But?” 

“But the Manager might refuse you service, and we’re gonna both be fucked sideways. Back to square one.” Marcus laughs, the sound tight and airless, and he pulls the car away from the curb onto the street proper. It isn’t until he gets onto the next block that Marcus starts to settle into this new normal. 

“I like those odds, don’t you?” 

Iosef opens his mouth and closes it again. What do you know, the kid can keep his mouth shut after all.

::

John’s house is homey, lived-in, comfortable in itself. Dare even Marcus even think it--civilized, honest. It smells deep-cleaned and ever so slightly industrial, but every corner of it has been loved by a woman’s hand. Not that Marcus knows too much about that. It’s just a guess.

She--Margaret--says, “Are you a friend of John’s? Have you eaten anything?” 

Marcus gets to know Helen’s mother. Helen is her only child, and while Marcus has never had the real chance to know Helen, he feels that he gets a sense of her still, based on how John has changed. The discomfort in the pit of his stomach that is keeping Marcus from eating (but not from drinking) isn’t jealousy. Jealousy is easy, and he’s never been jealous, because he’s always been _alone_. No one and nothing to lose. 

“I always find it funny to eat at funerals,” Marcus lies. 

Margaret says gamely, “It must be your first funeral. I thought it was strange too, at first.” 

“What changed your mind?” Marcus has always been pretty good at paying attention to multiple things all at once. He’s got a wide periphery, and in said periphery he sees John surrounded by a bunch of people, including a pair of twins who are ostensibly color-coded by the different shades of their ties. Marcus notices them especially because seeing double is never a good sign in his line of work. A bad omen, they call it, and Marcus is hardly the type to give in to superstition. 

But he’s still got his gut, and his gut is telling him that all this is wrong. 

“I got hungry,” Margaret says. 

“Oh.” 

“Helen’s cousins,” Margaret offers, following Marcus’s gaze. “That’s Bill in the blue, Raymond in the red. They were a little like the Three Musketeers.”

Marcus says, “Oh,” again, and when he raises his glass of wine, he realizes he’s empty. This is telling because Marcus isn’t really a wine person. 

“I’ll get you a refill, hon.” Margaret touches his arm. “Won’t be a minute.” 

Marcus wants to say no, if only because there’s something distasteful about asking the mother of the deceased to play fetch. But he hasn’t exactly asked. He’s still thinking this over when his phone buzzes, three times in a row which means he’s got to pick up. Marcus has never been so grateful in his fucking life. He’s able to tell her in a single breath no, it looks like he’s needed at work. But thank you Margaret, very much. 

And manages to hightail it out of there into John’s backyard when he can get a moment. By the look of it, John’s taken to gardening. Even now, John’s full of surprises. 

After double checking that no one seems to have noticed his absence, Marcus picks up the call. “Yeah.” 

“Viggo said I should ask you to back me up,” Perkins says, not even bothering with hellos. She never does. “Just say no, and we can get it over with.” 

Despite himself, Marcus likes Perkins. She’s full of bad habits, and she isn’t reliable, but he trusts her to look after herself. Kind of. And that’s the only sort of trust a man needs to have in this business. “Then no. There, it’s over with.” 

She says, coy, “You usually like backing me up.” 

No stranger to innuendo, Marcus winces anyway. He plays his answer back and forth in his mind and decides that he’s hardly given anything away. He responds glibly enough, “You make that sound dirty.”

Perkins snorts, either to confirm that she was indeed out of his league, or maybe something else. “In your dreams, old man.” 

Behind him, the patio door opens and John steps out. 

“I’m actually busy,” Marcus says, glad to have a physical reminder of his excuse. “I don’t have any gear with me, and I trust you.” He does, in a narrow sense. Marcus can only assume that Perkins dislikes dying as much as the next person, so she probably isn't going to die. Not today, not when she’s got a point to prove. “I have to go.” 

John prods, once Marcus has hung up, “Work?” 

“Yeah, but I ought to be slowing down, at my age.” Marcus glances at him. John looks pale, and not just from the black he was wearing. Usually, this sort of jab got John smiling, but not this time. Marcus leaves it a moment longer and moves on. No sense in leaving things hanging. “Besides, I can’t be in two places at once, can I?” 

John shrugs. An almost companionable silence passes between them, and then John expels a breath, as if he’s been holding it in for the last several hours. One syllable, scraped from the back of his throat: “ _Fuck_.” 

Marcus says nothing. He doesn’t dare move a muscle, either, a few minutes later, it starts to rain again.

::

“I’ve never been here bef--” Iosef begins, and remembers that he’s supposed to be keeping his trap shut.

The Continental is quiet around this time in the morning. The best thing about their profession is that everyone is scrounging for that extra hour of shut-eye before checkout time. The lobby is practically deserted, but as always, the Front Desk is staffed and never left empty. Marcus has never been much of a morning person, but now he’s thankful for the fact that everyone else isn’t, either. 

Charon is a man of few words, but just an arch of one sleek eyebrow makes Marcus feel like he’s in for it already. 

“Good morning.” 

“Morning,” Marcus sighs. “I need a favor.” 

“It looks to me you need more than that, sir.” 

Beside him, Marcus can feel Iosef vibrating again, but he’s relieved when the kid does (and more importantly, says) nothing. 

“Maybe I do,” says Marcus. From his pocket, he extracts a heavy gold coin, one he knows to be practically hot off the presses, and slides it meaningfully across the desk. “If you can find a place to stash this one--” he jerks his chin towards Iosef, who shrinks just a step or two behind him, “--and arrange for a parley with the Manager on my behalf, then I’d appreciate it. I know it’s early.” 

“Do you plan to speak for him?” Charon’s eyes flicker over to Iosef, just for a moment. “He certainly cannot speak for himself. Mr. Tarasov has no standing here, regardless of his father.” 

“I don’t _want_ to,” Marcus admits. He thinks about lying for a hot second. Of course, he ends up deciding not to, because lying to the concierge serves no purpose. “But a contract’s a contract. I’ve already said I’d do it, so. Might as well give it a shot.” 

Given Marcus’s propensity for guns, and what he tends to do with said guns, this is maybe not the best joke to be making at this point and time. It’s a bit off color, but it’s not as if he gives a fuck. 

That’s his damn best excuse and he’s going to stick to it. 

Charon appears to think this over. Finally, he nods, “I would be willing to grant a temporary permission of stay for Mr. Tarasov, for the duration of your parley with the Manager.” 

When Marcus opens his mouth to thank him, the concierge heads him off with a raised hand. “But should the Manager refuse you service, then I ask you to vacate the premises without incident.”

“You got it,” Marcus says, nodding tersely in agreement. What other choice did he have?

::

After what seems like a million fucking years, Charlie and his boys finally show up with reams of plastic wrap, mops, buckets, industrial cleaner, the works. Marcus has a word with Charlie: Viggo is looking for a pretty standard clean, leaving the bodies where they are, but also making sure the rest of the house is cleaned up, to not make more trouble than necessary.

But it’s important that Gohar Khan pays his sister a visit and witnesses the scene as it's set in place. After all, actions have consequences; actions have reactions, and knowing Viggo’s ever growing reputation, Khan couldn’t have not known that the _bratva_ would retaliate swiftly, and more importantly--violently, and without any hope of recompense. 

The exact usage Winston had used, was “not take the piss,” but that just had unfortunate implications no matter how much Marcus turned it over in his head. That limey bastard should just learn how to talk American. 

“Come on,” Marcus says to John, who hasn’t said a word since he’s made the reservation. But even if the younger man says not a word, Marcus can still feel him boiling over with--who the fuck knew what--something clear across the room. “Let’s get out of here and let them work.” 

“Okay,” John agrees. He steps around a guy minding a stubborn spot of blood, and apparently the sight of Marcus getting John to mind with so few words is enough of an event to get everyone to stop working and stare.

“The fuck are you all staring at?” Charlie claps loudly, shaking everyone (including Marcus) out of it. Whatever it is. 

“Tick tock, boys, we’re on a clock since the call came in late.” 

John’s apartment is in a building about a few blocks away from Viggo’s restaurant, and he lives alone, with the understanding that sometimes his couch and his fridge might be appropriated in the name of business. But aside from the fact that John’s meant to be keeping an eye on it for any suspicious activity, he’s got free reign of the place, and even lives there rent-free. Marcus has wracked his brain before on several occasions to figure out whether Viggo has gone this far for a subordinate, especially a mad dog who has come from the Theatre, but he’s come up empty.

Maybe the explanation is as simple as Viggo not being a stupid man. That he’s afraid of the day John bares his fangs in the wrong direction. 

What Viggo’s perfectly cautious actions regarding John might imply about Marcus’s own approach to the kid isn’t something that Marcus wants to think about.

“Want to come up?” 

Marcus can feel the side of his skull prickling with the intensity of John’s stare. He shouldn’t, but his mouth moves before his head. Instinct. “Maybe for a few minutes.” 

They make their way through to the lobby elevator without incident, although the elevator is smaller and stuffier than Marcus remembers. The air on this side of too thick with an unpleasant smell on top of it. 

“The vent’s broken,” John says, motioning above his head. “I was supposed to go yell at Viggo about it. I forgot today.” 

“I’d pay good money to see you yell at Viggo,” Marcus returns, because he would. “Want me to do it?” 

“Would you?” 

“Maybe I won’t yell at him,” Marcus says, “but I can scare him into getting someone to fix your vent, no problem.” 

A smile plays at the edge of John’s mouth. He says, “You’re a pretty scary guy.” 

John tells Marcus to make himself at home once they get up to the apartment. But then he turns around and tells Marcus that maybe he shouldn’t open the fridge. “There’s a--there’s beer in the fridge, but if you want that, I’ll get it.” 

“Okay.” Marcus isn’t squeamish by any means, but he appreciates the thought. He appreciates all the times John thinks to use his head, because it means the kid is learning. “Maybe something stronger than beer.” 

John pours them a couple of fingers of Blanton’s each and settles next to Marcus on the couch. He seems to have stopped boiling for now, but there’s always the next time. “You ever think about it?” 

“About what?” 

Bourbon is not Marcus’s usual fare, it makes his stomach curl for reasons he’s never figured out, but he tries not to be too picky. It’s all right once in a while. 

“Viggo said we had a deal with the Khans.” 

Oh, so they’re back to that. Marcus looks at the liquor in his glass. “We don’t really, now. Unless Gohar Khan wants to negotiate, which, if I were him, I would.” 

“Do you ever think about the day someone puts a contract out on you?” 

“Someone did, once. Before I met you.” The words leave Marcus’s mouth before he can pay them proper mind. He’s going to take this some sort of sign and leave most of the bourbon where it is in the glass. Besides, he’s got to drive. Marcus doesn’t mean to stay long; maybe he already has. 

“How come you never told me?” 

“Because I assumed you knew.” Marcus shifts ever so slightly to look at him. “How many contracts did you take last week?” 

“Two.” John doesn’t even think about it. 

“And did you fulfill them?” 

“I did.” 

“Contracts are everyone’s bread and butter; it’s like breathing or I don’t know, taking a shit. We talk about that, we’d never shut up, John.” Not that John has this problem, but anyway. Marcus reaches to take a drink from his glass, then has to remind himself that he’s decided not to.

However, it looks as if the drink has done John some good. 

Most of the time, Marcus is glad that John is always on the lookout, on guard. It means that Marcus doesn’t have to worry about growing eyes on the back of his head. John sometimes made the sort of last-minute decisions that would normally leave a man for dead, but so far, John’s always figured it out. 

“So what happened to your contract?” 

“Played the long game.” Marcus shrugs. “People either died, or got bored, and Viggo got his renegotiation in the end. Wouldn’t recommend it for you.” 

John says, “Why not?” 

“It’s not your style, for one thing.” 

“Guess it isn’t,” are the next words to come out of John’s mouth, even though Marcus has him primed to say something else. John’s mouth, unlike the rest of him is still on guard, hardened into a straight line. 

Marcus touches him on the knee, and John turns towards him. 

“You want to say something to me, then say it. Get it out of your system, John.” It’s been a weird night all around. If Marcus doesn’t open the door for him, who knows the next time John’s going to explode after boiling for too long. 

“Don’t send me back to the Theatre,” John says immediately, never one to waste an opportunity. 

“I won’t,” Marcus says, and means it. This is the first proverbial shot, and he braces himself for more. A barrage of truths that have been stuck around them ever since they’d started working together, and while Marcus doesn’t think he can do everything, he can just about manage an apology if John demands one. 

But he won’t like it. 

“What else?” 

John has always been quick. Quicker than Marcus, more certain of how his body moved and more able to compensate for mistakes in a blink of an eye. Marcus finds himself flat on the couch and John’s spit tastes like Blanton’s. 

Holy fuck. 

“That…” Marcus says, although the word doesn’t come out right. Not enough air. With John’s face still inches away, he forces himself to make the right decision because one of them has to. Marcus is aware, however, of the way John’s thigh is pressed neatly and urgently against him, and he has to cough to try again. 

“--Okay. That out of your system?” 

“So long as you promise not to send me back to the Theatre, Marcus. You’ve got to promise.” 

Marcus touches John’s mouth, and nearly-- “Promise. Just--don’t fuck up again, yeah?” John nods, a barely perceptible inch, and Marcus allows himself to be relieved. “Let me up. if Viggo’s still in, I’ll be sure to mention the vent.”


	3. Playing big

“Are you planning to buy a private island? A second home in the Hamptons? Or are you in the sort of debt where your collectors want a limb?” 

“You’re having way too much fun with this,” Marcus grouses. Still, the table is set for two on Winston’s fuck-you-look-at-me fucking balcony and what the hell, Marcus is hungry. He hasn’t had breakfast. There’s a bowl of fruit set in the middle of the table and Marcus helps himself to a shiny green apple. 

“This is hardly _fun_ for me, Marcus,” Winston corrects him. “I’m already dreading the mess Jonathan’s going to leave me with.” 

“Managers aren’t allowed to meddle in Contracts, remember?” 

“I remember.” Winston smiles vaguely. “I didn’t help you twenty-five years ago, and I’m not going to help you now. And still, here you are.” 

“I don’t want help. I’m on it.” Marcus bites into the apple, but he has the good sense not to talk with his mouth full. “I just want to leave the brat here while I take care of a few things, that’s all. Can I do that?” 

“You don’t want any help, but you rouse me at daybreak to ask for something you know can’t be done.” Mostly, Winston looks like he’s savoring the prospect of telling Marcus no. Winston likes saying no. “He isn’t initiated. Has no standing. From what I gather, young Iosef is not even employed by his father, supposedly for his own protection. Laughable, really.” 

“You once told me,” Marcus says, weighing the half eaten apple in his grip, “that it’s not whether something can be done, right? It’s whether you allow these things to be done on hotel grounds.” He’s careful to say “hotel” rather than “company” because Winston is hardly that, and for all of Winston’s self-imposed isolation atop his lonely ivory tower, the thing The Manager is most susceptible to is flattery. After all, he’s not a duke of his own little castle unless someone else affirms that this is the case. 

Marcus doesn’t particularly like kissing ass, but desperate times call for desperate measures. 

Winston sips either tea or coffee from a white pristine mug and doesn’t bother offering Marcus any.

That’s fine too. 

The next moments are crucial, and Winston has always been the one between them to utilize silence to its fullest potential, whereas Marcus has held a gun too long with his back wide open to really enjoy peace and quiet for what it could be. 

“What you’re really asking me, then, Marcus, is whether or not I can keep Iosef Tarasov’s presence in the hotel a secret from the man who hunts him. The _Baba Yaga_.” 

“That name sounds even more ridiculous when you say it.” Marcus can’t help the jab. “But yeah, I’d like that.” 

“There’s nothing preventing me from telling Jonathan about young Iosef.” Winston says, and Marcus can see it, the way he’s savoring it, the way he rolls every syllable around and then back again. “There’s a line between being on a Contract, and being on a personal vendetta. Either way, things aren’t looking too good for you.” And then he lands it, a one-two punch: “Should have retired when you got the chance.”

“Forty-eight hours,” Marcus says, “Guarantee Iosef Tarasov’s safety for forty-eight hours, and whatever happens afterwards isn’t the Continental’s problem. Okay?” 

Winston appears surprised enough to actually stop gloating to think. He puts down his cup of whatever and looks Marcus square in the eye. Marcus has the good sense again, not to flinch. 

“Forty-eight hours, that’s...optimistic of you.” 

“I’m not optimistic,” Marcus tells the truth, “just trying to work with what I got. Realistic, is what I am.” 

“I always did like that about you,” Winston assents, finally, and Marcus tries not to look too relieved. “All right. Forty-eight hours. Provided you answer one question for me.” 

Marcus polishes off the rest of the apple and before he can decide against it, wraps the core up in a napkin to be thrown away later. “Shoot.” 

“I was under the impression you and Jonathan were...intimate friends.” 

“If we were,” Marcus says, “the fact that he left me for a woman probably tells you all you need to know.” It’s not quite the truth, or what he means to say, but again, it’s what he’s got to work with.

::

The wake continues late into the evening, until the booze runs out. It’s only then, that people start to stagger out into John’s driveway and Marcus watches the whole thing play out like a bad movie, shorting at the most inopportune of moments.

At last, it’s just Marcus, John, and Helen’s parents. 

“You’ll call if you need anything, John? We’re only a phone call away.” 

John just thanks them for coming and tells them to have a safe drive home. Marcus nods his own goodbye, something stuck in his throat. 

After that, he leaves them to be awkward by themselves. Marcus makes himself useful and retreats into John’s kitchen, starts sorting empty cans and wine bottles into the recycling because a.) it’s noisy and he doesn’t want to hear what they’re saying and b.) while John isn’t the most environmentally conscientious guy out there, who knows about his missus? Better not to disrespect the dead in her own house. 

Or better yet, Marcus should really just get the fuck out of John Wick’s house and John Wick’s normal life. He has no business being here and John was right, Marcus had hated the wake. Everything about it had made him feel unclean, like he’s dragged with him the scent of corpses. He’s always been aware of the dead, but not like this. 

“What are you doing, Marcus?” 

“Sorting your recycling,” Marcus says, and laughs, because it sounds absurd. 

“I can do it.” John steps up next to Marcus and tries to pry his hands away from tying up a plastic bag. 

“So can I.” Marcus bats him away just as easily and finishes the job. If only it were that easy. “And it’s done.” 

“She always did it,” John says, “said it was good for the planet.” 

“I know,” Marcus says, before he can stop himself. When John turns an accusing eye towards him. Marcus holds up both hands in the universal gesture of surrender. “I saw your recycling out in the yard.” He adds, “I don’t know her, I know you and you wouldn’t have bothered.” 

“That obvious?” 

“I’ve known you a long time, John.” 

John’s gaze, sure and bright before, slides away from Marcus, as if he’s newly discovered shame from decades ago. He mutters, “Guess you have.” 

“I’ll give you a minute.” Marcus gestures at the plastic bag. “Could take that out.” 

“Never mind,” John says, after a long pause, “I’ll do that tomorrow. She’d like that.” 

“You made quite an impression on Margaret,” John says, setting a tumbler of Blanton’s in front of Marcus. Marcus can’t help but think that he’s been here before. Except this time, he’s got wine already making his head sluggish where it shouldn’t be so who knows. It’s all an adventure from here. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” John echoes noncommittally. He presses his own glass firmly to the line of his mouth after that, perhaps in an effort to keep Marcus from speaking, too. 

Marcus lets it go on for a minute, and then he says, “Why? Been talking bad about me?” 

“Nothing like that.” John shakes his head. “She asked if you lived alone, or had anyone to look after you.” Just hitting on him then, great. 

“And what did you say?” 

“I said I hadn’t seen you for a long time, although we used to work quite closely together.” John shrugged. “That for all I knew you lived alone but maybe you caved in and got a cat.” 

“I’ll put that on my shopping list,” Marcus says, but he hates cats. He doesn’t much like dogs, either, but he likes them well enough when he can give them back, or if they belong to other people. 

The ringing of the doorbell, followed by a hesitant series of knocks jolts them both out of it. Marcus can see the way John tenses, that the man is thinking the same thing--while there are rules protecting the comforts of John Wick’s civilian life, there’s precious little of the same guarding the simple fact, that he is still John Wick. Marcus, having gone through many versions of the same, can’t fault whoever it is for their logic: kick a man when he’s down for a chance. 

“Go into the kitchen, John. It’s all right.” 

“I can’t ask you to do this,” John says. 

“You didn’t ask,” Marcus points out. He gets up from his comfortable spot from the sofa and bites down on his tongue, trying to drown out the dizziness from the liquor still in his mouth. “Go. Now.” 

John does, and Marcus draws a gun. He’s relieved that it still feels natural, like he can trust it. What a relief. 

More knocks on the door. 

“Delivery for Mr. Wick!” 

Marcus tries to discern other noises coming from outside. He tries to remember if he’d heard multiple cars approaching and can’t recall that either. Finally, he opens the door just a sliver. From the gap, he observes just one guy in a plain, blue delivery uniform. He’s holding a carrier and wearing a sheepish smile. 

“Sorry to bother you so late. But Mrs. Wick left very detailed instructions. Wanted this little lady delivered today.” 

“Little--” Marcus swallows a breath so fast that empty air scrapes its way down his throat. “That’s a dog.” 

“I’ve got kibble and some other things in the car,” the guy says helpfully, poking the carrier in Marcus’s direction. “Can you take this?”

::

“Forty-eight hours?” Iosef’s eyes widen. “You’re fucking kidding me, right?”

“I didn’t think we’d even get our feet in the door.” Marcus leans heavily against the door, feeling nearly prehistoric. “Anyway, you’ll be fine. Just stay here, order room service, try not to be too obnoxious towards the staff.” 

“And you’re...what? Just leaving?” 

“I’m not just _leaving_ ,” Marcus says sharply. It doesn’t come out as stern as he means it to. He must be getting soft in his old age because he used to like discipline. He’d like in particular, when John had understood it and taken it upon himself to-- “Listen to me, I’ve bought us forty-eight hours to try to get you out of this fucking mess of your own making. You either let me go do what I need to do, or you can chance it out there. Alone.” 

That shuts Iosef up right quick. 

“What’d you do with John’s car?” Knowing the way things are going, Marcus wouldn’t be at all surprised if Iosef ended up driving the Mustang while very high into a ditch or something. 

“His Mustang?” 

“No, his Honda Civic,” Marcus sighs, “yes, his fucking Mustang. Where is it?” 

“It’s in um.” Iosef has to think, his eyes tightly closed. “My Uncle’s shop. In Edgewater.” 

“In Jersey? Which Uncle?” Viggo has an assortment of siblings. Marcus has met most of them at this wedding or the other. It’s a complicated family. Some are on the straight and narrow, some aren’t. 

“Yeah.” Iosef nods vigorously, repeating the motion so violently that Marcus thinks his head might fly off. “Yeah, in Jersey. My Uncle Abram.” 

Edgewater is a commuter town right across the river. Marcus can be there and back within the hour if he wants to. Abram Tarasov is Viggo’s only older brother, and yet it speaks volumes that Viggo is the one who runs Little Russia. “Text him and tell him not to touch it.”

::

_Your best friend, Helen_

In the privacy of his own car outside of John’s house, Marcus lights a cigarette. He’d quit years ago, but an odd compulsion means that he keeps a pack and lighter in the glove compartment. The wretched sound of John _sobbing_ into his dead wife’s note is something that can’t leave Marcus’s head soon enough. 

He should go. Crawl home at fifteen miles per hour and go to bed. It’s been a long day full of nothing but an old life. 

A knock at his window. John, looking more or less composed again, if no less pale. He has Daisy tucked underneath his arm and as Marcus rolls down the window, the puppy eagerly strains forward towards the inside of his car. 

“All right?” Marcus asks, speaking at the barest volume. He doubts he can manage to speak any louder, and besides, he doesn’t want to frighten Daisy. 

“I think so.” 

“Then I think I should get going,” Marcus says. He reaches to brush a finger by Daisy’s wet nose and she seems happy enough about it. 

“Or you can come back in,” John says and Marcus coughs. “If you want to.” 

Another compulsion, this one much older than the one represented by Marcus’s wayward packet of cigarettes, drags him out of the car, as if it were an invisible hand.

::

“Fifty-seven people are dead,” Viggo says when Marcus rings him while he’s waiting for the elevator. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Cleaning up everyone’s goddamn mess,” Marcus stabs at the button again. Usually, he’d be more accommodating, but it’s not even noon yet, and the day isn’t shaping up to be any better. “And remember what you told me? That contract’s for _everyone else_? Your kid’s still breathing.” 

Marcus can hear Viggo breathing too. Come to think of it, Viggo is usually the type to keep his wits about him under pressure. Usually, he’s somebody who is cool as a cucumber and in charge. The Viggo who is now sucking in thin air, like some sort of junkie...isn’t that. 

“Viggo?” 

“ _He’s_ here, Marcus. He’s going to--”

Well, shit. 

But John’s not stupid. John’s always been one to go straight to the source. Marcus can see his dark form now, perhaps exhausted but still going. Because John can keep going forever if he needs to. He’s that breed of bloodhound, those kinds that cling on to a scent until it was all he could think about. 

“...John? You there?” 

The elevator still hasn’t arrived, stuck somewhere between the fifth and sixth floor. Marcus gives up and heads for the service stairs. 

“Marcus?” 

Marcus jerks to real attention somewhere down the stairs. He hasn’t heard John’s voice in a week, since Helen’s funeral, but all of the sudden it seems like years have passed instead of days. 

“Yeah,” Marcus says, “If you have a gun to Viggo’s head right now, I suggest you drop the gun.”

“It’s not pointed at his head.” 

“Still.” 

On the other end of the line, there’s only a dead silence. Marcus keeps waiting for the familiar snap of a bullet to reach his ears and he keeps wincing in anticipation. 

But it doesn’t come. Still, Marcus isn’t exactly relieved. Then John says, “I just want him to tell me where his son is. But he won’t say.” 

Viggo says something unintelligible. He probably has a gun stuck in his mouth. Marcus knows from personal experience that it’s hard to say anything. To tell John to let up, would be pointless because Viggo doesn't know where his son is. He could have guessed to save his own skin, but Marcus knows that Viggo would never do that, either. He’s doing this for his son. 

“Just as well,” Marcus says, “Viggo doesn’t know where his son is. We thought that might be better.” 

“...We?” 

“I thought that might be better,” Marcus corrects himself, even though it’s a lie. It’s not a lie he means to tell, but twelve million and a lot of other things a guy would rather not think about, just come together to make up the perfect distraction. “Won’t you meet me? Actually--” Marcus cuts himself off and starts over. He says, “Will you let Viggo talk? Just for a few seconds, okay?” 

John doesn’t reply, but Marcus hears a familiar dislodge of something. Muzzle from teeth. 

“Marcus.” Viggo again. His voice raspy, and somehow inhuman. It’s only one word, but for whatever reason, the near-brokenness of it sends a weird sort of electric signal all the way down Marcus’s spine, making him cold all over. “...Marcus, if you violate the terms of our Contract, you’re _finished_. Do you hear me?”

Viggo doesn’t really play big. This is something else that Marcus knows about him. Viggo is not a gambler, despite allowing a quite lucrative game to run (minimum buy in is eighty thousand, good old American greenbacks only) by the Poles on Thursday nights. Actually, Marcus has no idea whether that’s still going on, but it’s not a big gamble on Viggo’s side.

This is Viggo playing big, and so the man must be scared out of his mind. 

Marcus says, “John.”

“Yeah.” 

“You in Brooklyn?” 

“Yeah.” This time, the syllable comes out slower, dragging behind it a healthy amount of suspicion. Kid--John has picked a hell of a time to start thinking, but Marcus can’t help but be a little proud. 

In contrast to Viggo, Marcus feels as if he’s always playing big. It’s not really a conscious choice, as he attempts to be careful when he can, but thirty years and then some, of living on the edge has also told him that if you don’t play big, you don’t get nothing. So, in that sense, it's not really a choice at all. “Stay there, and try not to get into too much trouble. I’ll be over as soon as I can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter got very long because I kept adding to it. Thought it might be better to break it up a little. I hope someone has enjoyed this :).


	4. Tomorrow

John pours him more Blanton’s without Marcus having asked for any. Daisy’s carrier is still sat beside the coffee table, but the note that had come with it is nowhere to be found, and Marcus is flooded with relief, as good as any high that he’s ever experienced (not that he does that kind of thing a lot) that it’s not something he has to see again. 

But eventually, Marcus settles in again, allowing the strangely ergonomic confines of John’s nice sofa again, and drifts off. He rarely drifts off nowadays. Despite the cracks Marcus makes about getting older (mostly to stop other people from getting there first), he feels that he’s growing more aware of this, more alert as time goes on, and as a result, he rarely sleeps. 

Marcus even knows why. Of course, he doesn’t broadcast it, but paranoia doesn’t seem so bad or scary once you’ve lived it with it for most of your life. It’s just become another part of himself, as constant, and habitual as drawing a pistol when threatened. 

“Wake up,” John says, with a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Just resting my eyes,” Marcus mutters. He ought to be ashamed of himself, maybe, but he does feel safe here. John’s residence should be protected on all counts. It’s hard to believe, but so far as Marcus is aware, Viggo’s influence is such that no one has come looking. Or maybe it’s just John’s own reputation still leaving their corner of the world in shock. 

In any case, Marcus can’t really remember the last time he’s felt safe. 

“I can tell when you’re bullshitting me, Marcus.” The warmth radiating from John’s flat palm and crawls up slow, spreading throughout his bloodstream with the bourbon. What’s more, John’s face is inordinately close to his, an inch or two more and Marcus might have--

“Can you?” The words taste thick and slow in his mouth. And not just from the booze, either. 

John doesn’t look convinced. With him so close, “When was the last time you slept? And not standing up.” 

Marcus looks through the narrow space under John’s armpit and finds it taken up by Daisy. She flattens her little body underneath John’s (and Helen’s--Marcus hastily reminds himself of that, even though the woman has died, and her corpse buried six feet under, it doesn’t make any of this any less hers)--coffee table and watches him.

“I’ve been reading this thing,” Marcus starts, in a poor attempt to avoid the subject. So long as they’re both staring at him like that, he might as well rest his eyes some more. Marcus lets his eyes fall shut again. “You ever heard of Buckminster Fuller? And the Dymaxion sleep?”

John says, “What?” 

Recently, since he’s gone into freelance, Marcus has got nothing but time. He’s not terribly good at picking up new hobbies, because when he gets into a thing that doesn’t involve guns, he feels a bit...it’s hard to explain, really. Guilty. Useless. A lot of things, complicated things, things that Marcus didn’t used to have time for. 

Despite this, he’s taken up reading. A few pages at a time, unless he’s fallen into something interesting. “He was this guy who only slept a couple of hours a day, a few minutes at a time.” Of course, the book he’s reading makes it sound more than that, but for now, it’d do. If there’s something Marcus is good at, it’s making the best out of whatever he’s got handy. “What’s the word, there’s a word for it…” 

It’s hard to think with his eyes closed. At the same time, Marcus worries about what might happen if he opens his eyes again. Finally, when it comes to him, Marcus snaps his fingers, a clean, sharp sound. Still, it’s not as satisfying as reloading a clip, or cocking the trigger. “Polyphasic sleep. It means, that a guy doesn’t sleep for more than twenty minutes at a time because the quality of sleep is different. And it’s named after a band or some shit. REM. Could have been real handy when we were working.” 

Marcus is quick to amend that statement. “Well, I guess I’m still working.” 

“You sound retired,” John says, but there is amusement bubbling underneath his voice. 

“Fuck you.” Marcus tries his best to summon irritation and finds next to nothing. “At least it’s better than what you’re doing. What are you doing? Gardening?” 

Now John looks away from him. At once, the easy expression on his face is gone, like a tap gone dry. “She liked it. Thought it was a good way for us to spend time together. I suggested that we plant some carrots or something for when you came by.”

Now, Marcus is awake again, mostly because he feels sick, and not from drinking too much. “Did you tell her about me?” 

“As much as I told Margaret. That we worked together. That you were kind of my boss.” 

Marcus makes a sound in his throat. “Best not to let Viggo find out about that, maybe.” 

“Well.” John drags out the word. “I didn’t plant any beetroot. It’s not as if I want Viggo over for a potluck.” 

“Of course you didn’t,” Marcus says, although he has no way of knowing that, except for taking everything he has ever known about John Wick, and trusting what he knows. “What did she think you did?”

“Something I wasn’t proud of,” John answers with a little shrug, if trying to shake his past life completely away from his person. “But it was the only life I knew, and so I did the best I could. It was important to Helen that I...tried.” 

“You do try,” Marcus assures him, although God knows why. “Look, I should get going, all right?” He’s stayed too long, like the last time. As the taste of bourbon swirls around like the uncertainty in his head, Marcus attempts to stand. 

“Marcus.” 

“Your wife is dead.” The words fly out of Marcus’s mouth before he could grant them due process. “John, you’re--” _not allowed to say my name like that_ , was meant to be the rest of the sentence, but that could have been damning. Marcus is glad enough to keep his mouth shut. 

“I thought I’d think about that tomorrow.” 

Standing up is a wash, and Marcus sinks down into the couch again. Apparently seeing this as her chance, Daisy darts from her previous perch and leaps, landing herself square in Marcus’s lap. She manages to stay there, looking proud and baleful until Marcus puts a hand on top of her head. It might just be his imagination, but out of the corner of his eye, even in the dark, he thinks that John might be hiding a smile. 

“You’re not supposed to be on my side,” Marcus says to her, as sternly as he can manage. “What would Mrs. Wick say, hm?” 

“I don’t think Daisy knows the first thing about sides,” John says. “Guess maybe that’s kind of the point.” 

“I don’t know what that means.” 

“It means,” John hesitates, “I don’t know. Look, at least stay until you sober up. I don’t trust you to drive.” As he speaks, he’s already moving to refill Marcus’s empty glass--the gesture probably a somatic response (something else he’s learned from that damn book) more than anything he’s actually thinking through. 

Marcus looks meaningfully at the glass, now topped up more than halfway. It’s probably what Winston would call an uncivilized drink. Especially given the time and place. “Until I sober up. Okay, sure.” 

“Well, I meant,” John starts and stops. Where he once would have sounded defensive, he now sounds just exhausted. Marcus watches the dregs of the bourbon trickle into John’s own glass as he tips the bottle. “Never mind, Marcus. Anyway, that’s the last of it.”

::

It’s late enough now that the lobby has picked up some when Marcus enters the space from the service stairs. The slow crowd is mostly made up of stragglers from a late night or goers of a very late breakfast, which may or may not be a euphemism. Charon, who stands at attention at the Front Desk, nods at Marcus as he goes past.

“--Hey, asshole.” 

Marcus stops short on the steps of the Continental and he’s suddenly aware of the fact that he’s got one foot nearly on the sidewalk and the other still on the last raised bit of concrete. 

He checks his watch and his holsters before turning around. The fact that Perkins is taller than he is will probably always give Marcus a complex. The kind of complex that forces him to admit that she’s also thirty-five and then keep spiraling down and down. 

Marcus is a little relieved to see, however, that Perkins isn’t looking her best, either. She, like the rest of their ilk in this illicit business, isn’t a morning person. And like the rest of them, she’s likely to shoot first and ask questions later. She’s standing there with a black eye, a cut above her lip, and a dark red mark across her throat the exact width of somebody’s forearm. 

“Hello, sunshine. The fuck do you want?” 

“Is it true Viggo’s paid you six million?” 

Marcus thinks about lying, but only for a hot second. Six million is a specific enough number that he has reason to believe that Perkins must have gotten it from somewhere. Maybe even straight from the horse’s mouth. 

He shrugs. “What’s it to you?” 

“You mean, what’s it to Viggo.” Perkins strides down the last couple of stairs, and as a gesture of good faith, even steps out onto the sidewalk first, where she knows she’s fair game. “He called me. To keep an eye on you. Make sure you don’t get any funny ideas.” Perkins turns again, adjusting her jacket in a way that suggests that she’s packing. This is also stupid, because everyone is packing. 

Hell, Perkins probably just wants to show off. Marcus resists the urge to roll his eyes as he looks at her up and down. 

“And you’re such a law-abiding citizen that you’re going to….what, keep an eye on me? Don’t you need medical attention?” There are signs that point to internal bleeding, not that Perkins will listen. 

But what the hell, Perkins never does. Marcus doesn’t find this surprising five years ago when he’d first met her, and he definitely doesn’t think differently now. 

Marcus starts walking too. Not in any hope that he’ll shake her, because of course he won’t. But he’s in a hurry.

::

“Did you love her?” Marcus asks this, not because he wants to know, but because he’s always been fond of the last-nail-in-the-coffin approach. Besides, he’s more sober now, and needs a reason to leave. A good reason would be to flee from a place where there’s no place for him. This whole house, silent and dead, is full of oppressive love just waiting to squeeze him out, dispelling him like an unwanted splinter.

“Of course I love my wife.” John stares straight up towards the ceiling. “But I also think, that you kept me alive for almost thirty years so I could meet her. That’s not something I’d forget.” 

“Now I really don’t know what you mean.” 

“Sure you do. And I didn’t really need to keep you alive,” Marcus says, “just gotta keep telling you to stop being stupid. And use your fucking head. And think before you shoot.” 

A finger sticks itself to Marcus’s temple, and he flinches on instinct. Not too far away from him (in fact, _entirely too close to him_ ) is John, just waiting. 

John even says, “See, I can wait.” 

Marcus tries to remember how much John has had to drink between the start of the wake and now, hours later. It’s so late, it might as well be tomorrow, but Marcus can’t bring himself to check his watch. He used to be able to keep track of these things easy, but now he can’t. Not because Marcus is getting older, but because it’s not his job anymore. He’s sick and tired of doing extra.

“That’s not funny, John.” 

The finger--John’s finger, but somehow, it’s easier on Marcus’s brain and elsewhere too, to think of the finger as discombobulated from the rest of John Wick--moves down, foraging a path down the line of Marcus’s nose, making him go a bit cross-eyed, but maybe John can’t see this in the dark. Before the finger reaches his mouth, where Marcus will likely have to make a decision the way he hasn’t been doing, John pulls away. 

“I wasn’t trying to be.” 

“Then what the fuck are you trying to do?” 

There it is, a flash of hurt flitting across John’s expression, that yet might put the final nail in Marcus’s proverbial coffin to let him leave. Something that Marcus doesn’t get to see all that often. He doesn’t even think he saw it with any regularity when John was still new blood. John’s not so prone to cruelty, but at least he’s unparalleled when it comes to keeping mum about things. 

And the strange thing is, Marcus has never really minded. He likes that John keeps his distance, and he’s also been holding out hope against hope, that the distance that John’s always found so natural, might one day morph into cruelty. 

If it hasn’t by now, it probably never will. 

Marcus stands, his knees steadier than he thought they ought to be. But that’s a good thing. He’s meant to be sober. He’s meant to be leaving. 

John stands, too. “Marcus.”

Marcus says, his tongue thicker than he remembers, like someone has pricked him there with a needle, making the words a hundred times harder to wrap around. “...Actually, don’t answer that.” 

“Okay.” 

Marcus catches John right under his chin, and John lets him without asking why, or even jerking away as he damn well should. Before Marcus can convince himself that it’s a fucking terrible idea, he leans forward and up to kiss John on the mouth. Like the last time, years and years ago, John tastes like bourbon, like nothing has changed, though everything has.

The kiss dies a natural death as these things do, and John doesn’t move. Maybe he’s still in shock. 

Whatever the case, Marcus takes advantage of this, and makes a run for it. Or if not a run, certainly a spirited stride towards the door. 

“I loved her, but I couldn’t be honest with her. I can be honest with you, at least. And the truth is, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.” 

But John doesn’t ask him to stay. John won’t. That’s not part of being honest. Marcus forces a breath through his nose, kind of like he’s breathing underwater. 

“I’m going, John. I’ll call you tomorrow.” 

He doesn’t.

::

“Jesus.” Charlie makes a face at the contents of Marcus’s trunk. He’s older now, and he always has his boys with him. He calls them boys, like they’re interchangeable entities in plastic wrap.

For all of his insistence on cruelty, Marcus has never been able to see his cubs as anything but human. That they’re going to grow up, make their own share of mistakes, mostly ones that he’s already made and told them not to.

They never listen. 

“Yeah, don’t ask. I thought I’d save you roadside cleanup.” Marcus inhales deeply from his cigarette. It tastes stale, but he doesn’t mind. He suddenly just needs a fix. 

“Are you okay?” Charlie peers at him up close. He’s even shorter than Marcus, but has an uncanny talent for staring up somebody’s nostrils in a way that makes a guy want to sneeze. 

Anyway, Marcus will try his best not to. He’ll also try his best not to look as two of the boys, each of them near probably seven feet tall and the size of a small tree, haul Perkins’s body out of the back of his car onto some tarp. 

“I’ll live.” He’ll live, but he’ll be sore for a while. Marcus’s shoulder is possibly dislocated and he sees Charlie looking at it. 

“That is not what I mean.” 

“That’s the answer you’re gonna get.” Marcus sucks the last of his cigarette and flicks it onto the ground, crushing it with the heel of his shoe. “You done?” 

“I mean, you’ll probably need a car wash, interior clean or whatever they call that shit. It’s not our...specialty.” 

Marcus ignores the jab and pays him off, including a big tip. Money talks, and he’s still in a hurry. 

Marcus doesn’t know what’s waiting for him in Brooklyn, but he parks a block away, the way he usually does, and limps to the restaurant. It’s too quiet. Quiet means trouble. Marcus has got a sixth sense about these things. 

“What happened to you?” John is standing by the entrance. His hands have dried blood on them, and his knuckles are peeled and scarred. 

“Speak for yourself,” Marcus returns, mostly to buy some time. “Don’t tell me.” 

“Yeah, I left Viggo alive so he could pay you,” John says in a forceful rush, as if he’s been holding this in for years. “He said I was never going to get to Iosef where you’d fucking put him because _you_ \--” 

Marcus can’t well defend himself with a bum shoulder, but he’s not really planning to either. There’s that part of him that thinks John isn’t going to hurt him, not too badly. But then, there’s also the part of Marcus that thinks he wouldn’t really mind, that he’d almost deserve it, if John decides to go all in. Still, John shoves him against the wall and grabs him tight by the collar. 

“Because of you! You have no idea what the brat did to Daisy, what he did to the last thing that Helen _left_ me and now I have nothing!” 

“I’m not the one who killed your dog,” Marcus says, and John swings. 

Okay, maybe Marcus deserves that. A fresh bright spot of pain appears under his jaw and spreads and spreads like wildfire. “I’m not going to tell you where he is. And even if I did--” 

John cuts him off. “So you can get rich?” 

“I’m already rich.” 

John hits him again, and _fuck_. Marcus doesn’t remember the last time someone has hit him in the same place twice. Hurts like a sonofabitch. He’ll have to remember for next time. This time though, he has to wait a moment for his vision to clear from the sudden jolt of pain. Maybe John’s being kind not to hit him straight in the mouth so that Marcus can still talk and keep his teeth. He’s getting on, but he’s not ready for dentures. Not yet. 

Still, Marcus has to take a moment. 

“If you do this, you’ll go back to a life you hated. A life you were never suited for, and a life where you didn’t have any fucking goddamn choice.” Marcus spits blood onto the ground. “Goddamn it, John.” 

Now John hesitates. Marcus almost breathes a sigh of relief, but then John’s grip tightens around his throat again. 

“What kind of choice is that if you’re the one making it for me?” 

“Maybe I don’t trust you. You never know what’s for your own good.” 

Suddenly, something whizzes by, a bullet. 

“--The next one won’t miss.” 

“Bullshit. Yeah, it will.” Marcus spits again. It only takes a fraction of a second, but John’s loosened grasp gives Marcus enough leverage to shove John away from him with his bad shoulder. That probably shouldn’t have worked either, but Marcus is good at working with what he has. Including the element of surprise, but it does the trick. 

Marcus twists around to see that Viggo Tarasov is there, looking as close to death as he’s ever been, holding a gun unsteadily in his hand. 

It doesn’t seem as if Viggo is having a great time either. “You’ve betrayed me, Marcus.” 

“No, I haven’t. If I did, then your kid would already be in fucking pieces in a ditch.” Marcus snarls the best he can. Wouldn’t you believe it, but it’s hard to sound menacing when you’ve got a jaw the size of a grapefruit. Marcus manages, "He’s probably pissing himself right now in two places but he’s still fucking breathing. And as long as he’s fucking breathing I.” 

An ache that’s not in his head or shoulder is snaking its way through Marcus’s head. He has to shut his eyes tight for a few seconds, gather himself up again. 

“You what?” Viggo demands. Not that he’s really in a space to be demanding. By the looks of it, he’s worse off than Marcus. That second wind doesn’t look like it’s coming anytime soon for him, either, and Viggo has to hold on to the wall next to where he is, a wall that isn’t for whatever reason isn’t riddled with bullets just to stay upright. 

What this means is two things. Either Viggo’s entourage had been asleep, or John has learned restraint. Both are equally impossible. 

“I am doing my job,” Marcus finishes, although it hurts to speak. Of course it hurts. There’s nothing about this that doesn’t hurt. He doesn’t dare look at John. 

Marcus’s life has been about one job, and then the next, and then the next, and the next. He doesn’t like it (much) but it’s a life and it’s a job. He’s not like Viggo Tarasov, who pines for a city, for an empire, for everything in the world. And, on the other hand, Marcus certainly isn’t like John, who stretches and yearns for another life with a gun in his bloody-knuckled hand. 

Marcus is just alone, the way that he has always been.

::

“Hello, Mr. Wick, Marcus,” Charon greets them cordially after hanging up the telephone. If he’s surprised to see the two of them together, he doesn’t say. Marcus thinks to himself that it must be exhausting being that professional all the time. “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like a room,” John says, sliding one heavy coin across the smooth glinting surface of the Front Desk. 

“I’d like him on a different floor from me,” Marcus adds, as casually as he can manage. He’s aware of how this looks. He’s also very aware of John’s arm around him, fingers gripping him hard near his hip. It will probably bruise in a couple of hours. Or now. Marcus is used to bruises. 

“I see,” Charon murmurs and stares at his screen. “Well, 818 is available. You are, of course, aware of the rules governing this establishment. Company rules. You’ve not been with us for some time, Mr. Wick, so forgive me for my pedantry. Even with the termination of any Contract, the Continental’s rules are paramount.” 

John nods, every bit of him tight. “I understand.” 

Marcus is keenly conscious of the fact that 818 is directly below 717, where he’s stashed Iosef Tarasov. Clearly, Charon has provided them with this arrangement on Winston’s orders, possibly as some sort of scientific experiment. 

As John deposits Marcus down on the bed, Marcus lets out a hiss, even though he doesn’t mean to. Now that all the excitement has been wrung from him and put on pause, every collector put off by the adrenaline pulling in Marcus’s bloodstream has come back calling. 

“You need the Doc,” John says. 

“Could probably say the same about you,” Marcus shoots back half-heartedly. He adjusts so he can lean against the wall and he extends his injured left hand in front of him, then he puts his right hand around the wrist. “I think I can manage, if I can pop this back into place.” 

“You sure it’s just dislocated?” 

“Yeah.” Marcus can’t help but give him a bit of a look. “I’d remember what a broken bone feels like. Not like you.” 

That’s meant to be an insult. But either John’s out of it or he doesn’t care. He simply kneels next to Marcus, looking up at him, the very picture of attractive penance even now. Then, John pries Marcus’s fingers away from his wrist to replace them with his own. 

“Let me do it. You can trust me.” 

Marcus chews the bloody inside of his cheek. He looks for somewhere to spit, doesn’t find anywhere, and has to swallow. Blood is bitter, something else he’ll remember for next time. Or he does remember it, the way the coppery viscous taste slides down his throat, but next time it’ll be…

Different. 

“Fine.” 

John’s eyes are on his the entire time, and it’s with great care that he extends Marcus’s arm in front of him. But Marcus holds his breath, because who knows when this moment’s going to snap. But it doesn’t, not really, not unless you count his shoulder clicking back into its rightful place; he’d been expecting it, but Marcus still can’t help but bite down on the back of his teeth. 

“Fuck.” 

“Better?” 

Gingerly, Marcus is careful to pull himself away from John’s touch before he tests it out. He doesn’t want to garner a false positive. He rolls his shoulder back, and then forwards, and it does feel better. “Just about.” 

“Good.” 

Marcus feels the mattress dip next to him as John sits. Then he says, “I’m sorry about your face.” 

“No, you’re not. Can hardly tell the difference anyway.” And that’s true enough. Marcus’s face has done its time, more or less. It’s why he likes guns. Guns keep other people away from him, assure him of his own loneliness. 

“Tell me where Iosef is.” 

“No.” 

“Why?” John whirls on him and Marcus flinches on instinct. He’s already been punched out today and maybe he’s not ready for round two. “You know what he did. Iosef Tarasov _deserves to die_.” 

“No one deserves to die, John. Not while the two of us are talking,” Marcus pauses, long enough to let that sink in. “Do you remember Tasmin Khan?” 

John doesn’t reply. 

“We don’t hit families or civilians. That’s what you said to me. And I said to you--” 

“The Khans are not a family. They’re a criminal enterprise. And if someone paid Olga Tarasova or the brat a visit at home, I’d be there.” 

“You and I,” John says, impossibly close to him. “That’s what you said.”

“But you retired, and I’m still here.” Marcus is suddenly overcome with an urge to touch him; it lasts for a second, but then he gives in. He’s waiting so long, and his fingers crawl over John’s skin like a guilty thing, grabbing what he can while he can. “I can’t do much, John, but I can be honest. And what I can say honestly, is that you’re a stupid fucker.”

It’s hard for Marcus to think about John on a certain kind of job. He’s touched himself to how it must be, because a man has needs, but he’s never imagined it in full, what it might be like. 

And it wouldn’t matter anyway, because John fucks like he fights. He gives his all into it and Marcus tries his best not to think of dead Helen Wick. She creeps in the edges of his mind, though he doesn’t think of her. But Marcus comes with John insistently buried deep inside of him, trying to touch the loneliest part of him. Over, and over, and over. 

Marcus comes with his hands clenched white-knuckled in John’s hair, trading one pain for another. 

For a moment after that, nothing. Just breathing. And taking stock, probably, of what a monumentally stupid decision this all was. There’s guilt, of course, on Marcus’s part because even as he’s come to realize that this--the image of John a little wrecked and wanting and--

John says, “Okay?”

Not really. The urgency of his orgasm has left him, and now, invading the aftermath of the high, are little pinpricks of pain, soon to be a tidal wave of motherfucking pain. Still, Marcus nods. When he can trust himself to speak again he says, “Yeah, okay. Fine. Fucking great.”

John makes a noise in his throat that might be a laugh. 

Then, Marcus says, “I know where your car is. Edgewater, Jersey. Abram Tarasov’s shop.” 

“That’s not what I asked you.” 

“Yeah,” Marcus exhales, “it’s not. But consider it a gesture of good faith. Since I trust you.” 

“Guess we could try again tomorrow,” John opines to the dark. His thumb is pressed invitingly underneath Marcus’s jaw, right up against his pause. It’s not a kind touch, and Marcus is already feeling the start of a bruise, no doubt black and ugly. Something else to remember John by, which is maybe why he doesn’t mind. 

And finally, it seems John is learning cruelty. Marcus tells himself he ought to be happy about that; it’s always been something that he’d wanted for John, even now. But the truth is that a good lesson always ends up taking too late. 

If he puts his mind to it, Marcus can almost hear it, Iosef Tarasov scurrying one floor down like a trapped rat in a cage. Tomorrow might be the kid’s lucky day, or it might not be. At this point, it really is a tossup.

Marcus says, shaking himself to put that out of mind, for now, anyway, “Yeah. Tomorrow.” Tomorrow, he’s going to be thoroughly fucked in a way he doesn’t like so much; at least, that’s what his gut is telling him. 

But that’s tomorrow, still hours away.


End file.
